


any excuse

by salazarsslytherin



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Facial Shaving, First Kiss, M/M, Not Beta Read, The Dornish Subplot, because he can't stand jaime's complaining, bronn offers to sort it out for him, but also maybe because other reasons, idk how to tag this it's completely random i wrote it in like an hour, jaime doesn't like it when his stubble gets too long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 23:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14725811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salazarsslytherin/pseuds/salazarsslytherin
Summary: “Well if it’s that bad, I’ll shave it for you."Jaime blinked at him.  “You’ll...shave it for me?” he repeated.“Aye,” Bronn said.  “If it’ll stop your bitching.”





	any excuse

“Will you fuckin’ _stop_?” Bronn demanded finally, shooting Jaime a look.

Jaime frowned, continuing to pull the twisted face he’d been making off and on for the past two days, scrubbing at the stubble scruffing his jaw.  “I need a mirror, I need to _shave_ , I hate when it starts to grow like this.”  He scratched at the stubble—too long, really, to be called just that any more—and gave a little huff.  “Maybe even a still pool of water.”  He was getting that desperate; he despised the feeling, it made him feel unclean, like he was a prisoner again, encased in grime and his own filth.  And, Gods, how it _itched_.  The itching was the worst.

Bronn rolled his eyes.  “Fuckin’ highborns,” he muttered.  He’d thought Jaime had _fleas_ or something, he’d been scratching so much.  “It’ll stop soon.”  He’d had his own beard so long he couldn’t really remember that stage of growth, but Jaime had only ever worn a hint of stubble that Bronn had always assumed was more laziness or the lack of a dextrous right hand than any particular choice.

“Not soon enough,” Jaime muttered.

“Well if it’s that bad, I’ll shave it for you,” Bronn said, because it was starting to get on _his_ nerves; Jaime just wouldn’t leave it well enough alone.  He wasn’t going another day of it; morning hadn’t long broken and he was already prepared to bury Jaime in the sand somewhere.

Jaime blinked at him.  “You’ll...shave it _for_ me?” he repeated.

“Aye,” Bronn said.  “If it’ll stop your bitching.”

“I’m not letting you anywhere near me with that dagger of yours,” Jaime said firmly.  “You’ll hack my face off with it, it’s so blunt.”

Bronn rolled his eyes again—he ended up doing that a lot, around Jaime.  He was a lot higher maintenance than his brother had ever been, and the long days of travel under the Dornish sun hadn’t done much to improve his patience.  “Sharpen it for me, then,” he said, tossing the dagger so it landed point-down by Jaime’s knee where he sat sprawled by the remains of their campfire.  

The aim was perfect but Jaime jerked his leg out of the way all the same, just in case.  He thought about it for a moment before fumbling in his pocket for a whetstone, plucking Bronn’s knife from the sand once he had it.  He was glad of an excuse to do it, in all honesty; Bronn’s complete lack of regard for keeping his weapons in good condition drove Jaime half mad.  

It was more difficult without his right hand but Jaime had learned to manage without since his return to King’s Landing, keeping the knife caught between his thigh and his wrist, running the stone along its length with his left hand.  The motions were easy and repetitive, something Jaime had been doing since he was old enough to hold a sword; it was oddly comforting.

Swiping oil along the blade once he was done, Jaime held the dagger up to watch the edge glint in the sunlight, viciously sharp.

“Much better,” he said.

“C’mere, then,” Bronn replied, jerking his head at Jaime.  

Jaime blinked at him.  “Now?” he asked, hesitating suddenly.

“Aye, now,” Bronn said, waving him closer.  “Before we start out for the day, I can’t hack your moaning for another morning.  Do you have soap?”

It was easier to just let the decision be made for him; Bronn was good at making quick, gruff decisions and Jaime was sick to death of the itching, so he found his soap out of his pack and lathered his jaw with some of their drinking water.  

“Sit there, put your head back,” Bronn directed, shuffling over to kneel behind Jaime once he’d settled on a position.  He tucked his hand under Jaime’s chin, holding him firmly, and pulled him back flush against his chest—not entirely necessary but he didn’t want Jaime wriggling around and accidentally getting his throat cut.  

He felt Jaime’s pulse jump in his neck.  

“Relax,” Bronn told him.  “If I wanted to slit your throat, I’d have done it while you were sleeping.”

Jaime jerked a little at that; it was lucky Bronn hadn’t set the knife to his cheek yet.  “You—what?”

Bronn shrugged.  “Easier, that way.  You wouldn’t struggle so there’d be less mess.  Calm down, Lannister, I’m not gonna fuckin’ _do it_.”  The gods tried to tempt him, sometimes; usually when Jaime was being a little brat and refusing to do any work or pull his weight, but Bronn would never.  He _knew_ he would never, knew in himself; he was a man who’d lived his entire life turning his sword and his cloak to whichever lord offered him most, but he wouldn’t turn them on Jaime.  Never him.

Bronn had been trying— _hard_ —not to think about _why_.

“I know,” Jaime said after a moment, sounding suddenly sure.

“You trust too easily,” Bronn told him, which was true.  Jaime _ought_ to be worried that Bronn might turn on him; if Bronn had any sense left in his head when it came to Jaime Lannister, he _would_.

“And you love gold too much to kill a Lannister,” Jaime said confidently.

Bronn let him carry on believing that _that_ was why, and readjusted his grip on Jaime’s chin, splaying his fingers but keeping his grip gentle enough not to hurt.  “Keep still,” he advised.  He hadn’t done this for anyone else in a while but he could figure it out.

He was fairly certain Jaime was holding his breath when the blade first pressed to his skin, scraping along in a familiar motion—steady and sure, leaving smooth skin in its wake.  Bronn wiped the knife off on a rag from his pocket before carrying on, tilting Jaime’s head up or to the side as needed, finding it far too easy to fall into the pattern of the other man’s breathing where they were pressed together.  

As he worked, Bronn was beginning to see small scars and half-healed cuts that he had to be careful to avoid, tongue between his teeth as he focused.  “You’ve made a right mess of this, Kingslayer,” he commented, giving Jaime’s jaw a tiny shake to indicate what he meant.

“It’s harder with my left,” Jaime said resignedly.

“Didn’t you learn to do it with both?” Bronn asked.  “Thought your father might’ve been good for something.”

Jaime was silent a moment.  “It wasn’t him that taught me.”

Bronn was almost finished but he deliberately slowed down the final few strokes, wanting to draw it out, refusing to address why—even to himself.  He pressed his fingertips a little more firmly into Jaime’s chin and jaw, just holding onto him as he shaved away the last few strips with utter precision.

“No?” Bronn said.  “That’s a father’s job.  He should’ve.”  Even Bronn’s father had shown him, useless as he’d been for everything else.  “Who did, then?”

“A brother,” Jaime murmured.  He had his eyes closed.  

“ _Tyrion_?”

“Not him.  Arthur.”  Bronn could feel it as Jaime swallowed hard beneath his palm.  “He was a Kingsguard, too.  He showed me when I was sixteen.”

Of course.  Jaime hadn’t even been at home in those days, sent off to join the white cloaks as a boy.  Bronn was sure Jaime would argue that he’d been a man grown, as most did at five-and-ten, but Bronn remembered (vaguely) being that age— _boys_.  Especially the highborn lordlings who’d lived in precious castles all their lives, or had been playing at war like it was a game or an artform.  

Jaime was very still against Bronn but his breathing was still even, his eyes still closed and his expression relaxed.  Bronn didn’t want to let him go.  He indulged himself, pressing the dagger against Jaime’s cheek a few more times, pretending he wasn’t finished.

Eventually, though, he had to stop.

“Good as new,” Bronn proclaimed, setting his knife down, but he kept his hold on Jaime’s jaw for another moment.

Green eyes flashed open and met blue, caught.  He didn’t pull away.  

Bronn’s thumb swiped just once along Jaime’s clean-shaven cheek, along the bone, and tugged almost accidentally at his lip before he released him, his hand dropping to clutch at Jaime’s shoulder instead.

Jaime tipped his head forward, blinking, and remained with his back braced on Bronn’s chest so Bronn couldn’t tell whose heart it was hammering just that fast.  He stared down at the back of Jaime’s head, the hair glinting gold in the sunlight, and sucked in a sharp breath before he gave Jaime a light push to put some distance between them.

Taking the hint, Jaime leaned away from him and Bronn quickly stood up, though that was probably more of a mistake; it put him back at normal height while Jaime still sat in the sand, now at his feet, and Bronn cleared his throat, backing up more.  He wanted that too much to linger there.

Jaime gained his own feet a moment later and brushed himself off, avoiding Bronn’s gaze for a moment that stretched and stretched, until it didn’t, and he looked up.  And Bronn could see it in his face, too.  _Something_.  The gods alone knew what, exactly, but it was _something_ , something there, just lurking, like if either one of them would find the courage to step forward then maybe they could have it.

Jaime blinked, and looked away, and looked back; he opened his mouth and he closed it.  He faltered.  

Then he moved.

Bronn met him halfway, his beard scraping roughly against Jaime’s newly-smooth jaw as they kissed, quick and off-balance, bumpy somehow, with a little too much teeth and Jaime tasting like soap.

They broke apart in the span of a few heartbeats, but it was enough, it was already enough.

“Fuckin’, _finally_ ,” Bronn huffed, before he grabbed Jaime’s tunic and tugged him back in so he could kiss him _properly_.  

Jaime’s moaning _then_ was a _lot_ more bearable.

 

 

 

  

 


End file.
